


grows like fancy flowers (but it grows nowhere)

by wanderlustnostalgia



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Fluff, Gen, Haircuts, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Monumentour (2014), Ridiculous, joe has feelings about his hair, nachos, what the fuck pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 04:30:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustnostalgia/pseuds/wanderlustnostalgia
Summary: “This is ridiculous.”“The fact that Pete has a personal stylist, or the fact that he dragged said stylist out here mid-tour to cut your hair?”“All of it.”--Joe needs a haircut.





	grows like fancy flowers (but it grows nowhere)

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for spotlight-newregrets on Tumblr who requested "a fic where Joe go gets a haircut and there is all sorts of shenanigans"
> 
> This might be the greatest thing I've written in a long time.
> 
> Title from "The Piano Knows Something I Don't Know" by Panic! at the Disco.

“This is ridiculous,” Joe grumbles.  He’s seated in front of a full-length mirror, wrapped in a styling cape with the Decaydance bartskull printed on it, and he looks absolutely insane.

“The fact that Pete has a personal stylist, or the fact that he dragged said stylist out here mid-tour to cut your hair?” asks Patrick, not looking up from his phone.

“All of it.”  He blows an errant curl from his face, frowning as it settles back down in front of his eyes.  “I do not need Peter fucking Wentz telling me what to do with my goddamn hair.”

“I mean, he had a point about the whiplash,” Andy points out.  He’s standing in the corner, leaning against the wall, and he’s got his hands free, which makes Joe’s itchy nose all the more irritating.  “Also, like, you keep bumping into things, dude.”

“Says the guy who wears sunglasses inside,” Joe retorts.  “’Sides, the hair hides my bruises.”

“Bruises?  Kinky,” someone says, and oh fuck.  Oh,  _fuck._

Brendon Urie has just waltzed into the room.

Holding a pair of scissors.

Joe does  _not_ have a good feeling about this.

“’Sup, Trohman?” Brendon asks, all casual, reeking of weed.  Patrick gapes at him, phone forgotten; Andy’s smirk dissolves.

“ _Brendon?_ ” says Andy.  “The fuck are you doing here?”

“What, can’t a guy hang out with his ex-tour buddies?” Brendon says, and  _god,_  that manic grin as he waves his scissors around is  _not_ reassuring Joe in the slightest.

Before he can vocalize this, the door opens, and Pete walks in, casually eating a plate of nachos.  He looks from Joe to Brendon to the others, then smiles.  “So,” he says.  “I see you’ve met my stylist.”

Of course.  Of _course._

“...Brendon Urie is your stylist,” says Patrick flatly, and Pete nods.

“That…explains a lot,” says Andy.

Joe closes his eyes and slumps back in his seat, wishing he could cover his face.  He is going to die.  He is going to fucking  _die_ if Brendon Urie so much as fucking  _touches_ his hair.

“I am not letting you anywhere  _near_ my hair,” he snaps, watching Brendon rifle through a small bag of unfamiliar instruments.

“Relax, I’m trained,” Brendon says, waving him off.  “I mean, I didn’t go to beauty school or anything, but my aunt taught me a few things.  I used to cut Ryan’s hair, actually.”

“Gee,  _that’s_ reassuring,” Andy deadpans, as Joe thinks of Ryan’s Fever-era faux-hawk and shudders.  “Pete, are you really sure this is a good idea?”

“What’d you want me to do, drop him off at SuperCuts?” Pete bites down on a nacho and chews, loud and obnoxious.  “Brendon can handle it.”

“Oh, I’m sure _Brendon_ can handle it,” Patrick replies, gaze returning to his phone.  “I’m just not sure  _Joe_ can.”

And with that vote of confidence, the horror begins.

 

Amazingly, two hours go by without Joe having a panic attack.  He does, however, spend a good portion of those two hours with his eyes screwed shut, opening them every once in a while to find Pete tossing nachos at Brendon’s mouth or Andy hiding a grin behind his hand or Patrick subconsciously touching his own bangs with vaguely concealed horror or, at one point, Brendon abandoning Joe completely to chase Pete around the bus, waving his scissors like a madman while Patrick and Andy look at Joe, then each other, and shake their heads.

Even less reassuring are the moments when Brendon actually  _is_ cutting his hair, the small mutters of “fuck” and “shit” and “goddamnit” and “wait, was  _that_ right” doing nothing to assuage Joe’s anxiety.  And maybe the most ridiculous part of this whole thing  _is_  the fact that Joe’s anxious—Joe who shaved his head and went on tour with a random stranger at fifteen, dyed his hair blond and ran around shirtless in freezing-ass Chicago autumn—but he can’t help it.  He’s not fifteen anymore, and he doesn’t care if it’s a new era of the band, Pete does  _not_ get to make these decisions for him.

By the time it’s over, the floor of the bus is littered with the remains of Joe’s curls.  Brendon’s packing up his stuff and Joe’s on his knees, sifting through the mess, mourning the loss.

“The nearest SuperCuts is half a mile from the venue, Joe,” says Patrick, like a saint with an iPhone.  “It’s on our route.”

“Thanks,” Joe mutters.  Doesn’t ease the pain, though.  He lifts a clump from the pile, then watches it fall from his fingertips with a sigh.

“It doesn’t look  _that_  bad,” Pete insists, as Andy’s shaking his head.  “I mean, it’s a little lopsided, but you’re totally working it, dude.  Nicely done, Brendon.”

“ _Thank_ you, Pete,” says Brendon, rolling his eyes.  He tuts.  “Jesus.  See, this is why Dallon doesn’t think I’m good at these things!  Because  _you_  people keep telling me I’m not—”

He’s still ranting and raving as the door shuts behind him, and Joe buries his face in his hands and groans.  His head does feel lighter, though.  And, god–it  _is_ nice to be able to headbang without feeling the whiplash.

“Hey, who’s gonna clean up this mess?” Andy wonders aloud, pushing around the fallen curls with his toe.

“I vote Pete,” Patrick says, still not looking up from his phone.

“Seconded,” says Andy.  “Joe?”

Joe looks at his curls, then at Pete, who’s peering into the fridge and doesn’t seem to have heard them.  The haircut really isn’t  _that_  bad, Joe thinks, glancing back at his reflection in the mirror, and maybe he should be grateful.

Then again, what’s the fun in that?

“Pete’s cleaning,” he shouts, catching Pete’s eye and smirking as Pete begins to splutter in protest.  “And he owes me a plate of nachos.”


End file.
